Motherhood.

I've been thinking a lot about motherhood lately. How we all have personal reasons for choosing not only to become a mother but all the ways in which we actually mother. And how, like climate change, it can transform wildly. Cause when I became a mother, I had many grand ideas of how I wanted to be. This planning, of course, started when I was pregnant. The first trimester was full of nausea and exhaustion, but once I passed the threshold into the second trimester, I was full of passion and zeal to plan my preparations for the non-toxic nursery, cloth diapers (wtf), homemade baby food, no plastic toys, and an all-natural no-drugs birth (blah blah blah blah blah). But, as we all know, life doesn’t ever happen as planned. So, choosing the path of motherhood is full of all the fun shit you will need to test your patience like never before and spiral down the tunnel to hopefully embrace the fact that you really have no control.

That seed was planted mid-way through my pregnancy with my firstborn when I found out my son was in the Frank Breech position (head-down, butt up), and my OB immediately told me I was going to have a C-section because of it. This, at first, squashed my natural birth dreams but I’m a stubborn bitch, so I didn’t just sit there and accept my seeming fate. I did everything, everything to try to change that motherfooking fetus. I went to acupuncture, stood on my head, my husband burned some Chinese herbs on my toes, and had an MRI at 20 weeks to prove that my hips were wide enough to pop a breech baby out of my cha chi (they are!); but nothing worked. I was so determined to gain some control over this situation I even ended up switching out my OB with another OB who agreed to perform a Frank Breech birth vaginally. Everything was set until I went into labor, and he became a Footling Breech (toes down, head up), which meant the deal was off as my OB said that position was too dangerous to attempt a vaginal birth. It turned out that little bitch was just as stubborn as his mama.

I often wondered, when he was finally born, if I would become that emotionally awestruck new mother who breaks down into sobs when her baby is first placed into her arms. I was not. I felt overwhelmed with exhaustion from the whole ordeal altogether. I wondered if maybe it was due to the circumstances, so when I became pregnant with my daughter, I wondered if her birth would be different. It was different, alright; I was able to have a successful natural no-drug V-BAC (vaginal birth after caesarian), but no tears were shed.

My pregnancy with her went pretty smoothly (relatively speaking for a geriatric pregnancy at 39 years old). It wasn’t until the last few weeks of my 3rd trimester that things got a little spicy, and I ended up in the hospital for 24-hour monitoring. I fell down a few old wooden stairs while we were at a garden store shopping for house plants. I lost my balance on that rickety stair, twisted my ankle, and smacked down on the hard concrete below, bracing my fall with my hands and knees. And though I felt fine, other than the fact I couldn't put any pressure on my ankle, my husband rushed me to the hospital to ensure the baby was fine.

The nurses immediately hooked me up to machines, and I had to stay overnight as one of the tests returned questionably. It was a sleepless night, no doubt, not to mention my ankle was swollen and getting increasingly painful by the minute. I also found it strange that no one cared about my ankle. It was about the baby in utero, not the mother. I had to beg one of the nurses to "at least raise my ankle to reduce swelling." One of the nurses suggested I should get an X-ray, so this stunning Native American man (the X-ray technician) wheeled a large machine into my room and started to ask me a few standard questions. In the process of his questions, I noticed his shirt was unbuttoned, and a large tattoo of a Native American Chief stared at me on his chest. Like a severe stare, as if he was attempting to tell me something. I asked the technician if he thought getting an X-ray during the 3rd trimester was safe. He immediately said, "Your baby is reminding you to rest. Rest. If your ankle still hurts after she is out, get an x-ray. But I think you are fine now to not."

A few weeks later, I went into labor wearing my hiking boots (the only comfortable shoes that fit my swollen foot) and using a walking stick that my birth doula received from some shaman in Africa (perfect!). During the 11th hour of labor, with the help of a hand pump, I was able to successfully pop out my plump, almost 8-pound girl (no drugs!). Everything seemed good until I started bleeding profusely, and my OB didn't know where it was coming from. So she checked all the usual culprits (my uterus had contracted). It turned out I had popped the central vein in my cha chi, which meant that I needed to get wheeled into the OR so they could put me under, find the bloody source, and stitch me up.

There I was, lying on my back in the OR (again!). But, this time, I was in my hiking boots, holding a walking stick, and delirious from exhaustion. The anesthesiologist hovered over me and said he would "give me a spinal so I don't feel anything" (the same drug I got for my cesarean). I looked up at him, deadlocked his eyes with all the strength I could muster, and said, "I had just had a successful VBAC with no drugs, so no way is that going to happen. I would like some propofol (Michael Jackson's sleep drug) I'll have a nap; the doctor can sow me up, then I'll wake up and feel my body". My OB agreed, and so, you see, in the end, everything went as planned. HA!

I didn't intend to write about my birth stories. I was "planning" on writing about how different mothers choose to be. How some still exercise while pushing their sleeping baby in the stroller, and some are too tired to move. Some stay-at-home moms forget to bathe and look as if they had just rolled out of bed, and some working moms look very put together in designer outfits as they drop their babies off at childcare on their way to work.

Women are brilliant multitaskers. We get stuff done and juggle so much in the process without taking credit for everything we can accomplish in a day; not thinking we did enough or are worthy enough (blah blah blah). But this life, especially the life of a mother, is a no-joke full-time job without breaks. It is an ebb and flow. Sometimes, it flows, and sometimes, it crashes and burns to the ground. Especially if you are a woman of a certain age and you add, on top of everything else, your dying hormones (stand the F back, kids!)

But, it all seemingly goes back to the lessons we learn at our children's birth; we have no control over how it's all gonna go down, and all we can do is do the best we can. Perhaps, by stepping away from our need to control everything, we can get a bird’s eye perspective of how we must embrace the fact that the babies we raise will very quickly become independent individuals with tastes and desires of their own. And, as they get older, sometimes it is just easier to stop arguing and let them eat some damn frozen chicken nuggets and boxed mac and cheese. Cause (for the most part) they don't want to eat the homemade organic shit you took hours to make for dinner anymore. The guilt of being a “bad mother that allows them to eat too much crap” might be building within, but we must carry on. Cause all we really want to do is sit our asses down, take a breath, embrace these fleeting years of childhood with these little eager beavers we created, enjoy them, be proud of them, and teach them to understand that we need some damn space or we will implode so please please please let us eat our damn dinner in peace so we can enjoy the fruits of our labor while it’s still hot!

Motherhood. It ain’t for pussies.